


you can be the boss

by strongandlovestofic



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, I guess???, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Phone Sex, Rimming, Smut, Spanking, it's just feelings and smut, oh and, what's the tag for 'how i learned to stop worrying and love my kinks'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 16:09:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19872370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strongandlovestofic/pseuds/strongandlovestofic
Summary: Brian texts you that night:> I think it's the moustacheAnd yes, okay, you're thinking about it, you've been thinking about it, about how you're into calling your boyfriend…  that, obsessing over what Goddamn weird part of your psyche is into this, so you know instantly what he's talking about.> Oh fuck you





	you can be the boss

**Author's Note:**

> me: wow i'm never writing daddy kink  
> pat gill: (exists)  
> me: motherhecker
> 
> big thanks to the whole chat for cheering me on while i wrote this in a haze of "why is this my life now". also big thanks to lana del rey for the title, and for having so many songs with the word "daddy" in them.

It's an accident, the first time. Accidental. You're a dumbass, you say stupid shit, it's in your lexicon — it's joking, it's always a joke, piss jokes couldn't be your only brand forever. Sure, you're encroaching on Simone's territory, but she — God, she can never find out about this.

Brian stares up at you, his eyes just wide enough to know that yes, you _did_ say that out loud, and you sit back on your heels, your hands sliding to his thighs.

"Uh," you say, then realize you've spread your combined come from his stomach down his legs. "Shit, sorry, I can get a towel —"

But a hand grabs yours before you can escape to the bathroom, and when you glance up, Brian's looking at you steadily. "You don't… it's okay."

You swallow, forcing yourself to hold his gaze.

Your reaction before you realized what you said was what really made it — you should've played it off, winked up at him and made him laugh. You should've done anything but drop your head forward and come, gasping as he worked his palm around your dick.

"How much of a goof was that?" Brian asks, and there's the familiar curdle of shame, your old friend, rotten in your gut. Except this time it's not because you fucked up. Except this time it's more complicated than your usual screw-ups, because you hear the hesitance in Brian's tone, you saw his expression after, confused and a little — it could've been surprise but it could just as easily have been disgust.

You school your face into as smug a look as you can pull off right now and waggle your eyebrows, tell him with smarm in your voice, "Just keeping you on your toes, big boy," like you didn't just run your fingers through the stripes of come on his stomach, whispering _please, daddy,_ while he rubbed his thumb across the head of your dick.

"Because, uh," Brian says, and he's gonna be fucking sticky if he doesn't get cleaned off soon. You should tell him that. You should go get a towel. You should keep, like, moist towelettes at your bedside? Wipes? Then you could be doing something with your hands. "Because," he continues carefully, "I think we could, you know. Make that a thing, if you want."

"What?" You bristle. You feel your Goddamn hackles rise — is he making fun of you? He wouldn't make fun of you. (He _would_ make fun of you and he has before, because he's an asshole, but… not like this. Not about something like this, you showing your whole horny ass.)

"What," he replies, and he's circling his thumb on your arm, like he's trying to calm you. Like you're skittish. Like he thinks you're gonna try to — okay, you weren't going to run. You were going to do aftercare. Be a good boyfriend. Move past whatever the fuck that was.

"That wasn't — it wasn't anything," you tell him, and he doesn't laugh at you but he does lift an eyebrow.

"Okay," he says, and he curls up and kisses you firmly, squeezing your arm before he lets go. "I need to shower then."

Thank God, he's letting it go. He'd better be letting it go. You're going to dwell on this for at least the next year but if he never brings it up again maybe you can cut that down to six months. "Lemme join you."

"Mm, conservation is sexy," he agrees, and kisses you again, and that's the end of it.

==

Until it happens again.

You're no spring chicken, you've been around the fucking block before, so you know what you're into. You were in a relationship for a decade, you spiced things up a couple times.

You told Brian a few months into hooking up you like it rough, sometimes, and he'd looked thoughtful until you'd told him specifically that, no, you liked it when people got rough with _you_ , and he'd let out a long, slow breath and asked if he could spank you. You'd felt that question in your bones, and it'd taken you a moment to find words that weren't _fuck_.

It's not a frequent thing — it leaves you kind of a mess afterwards, and leaves Brian a little keyed up and overattentive, but when you have the time and space it's a Goddamn astounding way to spend an evening.

Tonight you strip to your boxers and wait in the middle of your bedroom, because he didn't tell you where he wanted you yet. He joins you after what, 10 minutes of puttering around the apartment, petting Charlie probably, because he likes making you wait. He thinks the anticipation is exciting. (It is, and you're never admitting it to him.)

He's fully dressed but you can see the shape of his dick pressing against the seam of his khakis. He stands in front of you and trails a finger down your chest, from your collarbone to the top of your underwear, and pulls the band back to let it snap against your skin. "Get on the bed for me, Patrick. Hands on the headboard."

You sway towards him, your hands itching to touch, but you force yourself away, climb onto your bed and wrap your hands around the top of your headboard. There's not a lot to grab there, it's solid, but it works. It's kind of fun to have to scramble for a grip anyway.

Air hits the top of your ass when he pulls your boxers down, just enough that the elastic sits at the top of your thighs. It'll start to sting soon, but you don't expect to notice. The mattress dips and his hands are on your ass, his thumbs sliding down your crack, and you feel a kiss between your shoulder blades before he tells you to breathe in. Breathe out.

His first hit coincides with the end of your exhale and you shudder, the pain gone nearly as soon as it started. He rubs his palm over your skin and then it's gone for a split second, comes back with a solid crack that reverberates up your spine.

You try to remember to breathe. He twines his fingers in your hair, his knuckles against your scalp, and he pulls your head back until you feel the strain, until you're distracted enough that the next smack makes you yelp.

"Fuck, Pat." His mouth is warm on your shoulder, his teeth scraping against your skin, and you whine when he hits you three times in quick succession, leaves your skin hot and stinging before massaging his fingers into your other asscheek. "You look good, baby."

He doesn't expect you to respond, not really, you tend to lose your words when you do this — it drives you out of your head. You're stuck paying attention to sensation. Craving the sharp bite of a hit followed by the sudden relief, then lingering pain.

"I want you across my lap, Pat. Can you do that for me?" He digs his fingers into the meat of your ass and you push back into it. Fuck. 

"Yeah," you manage, and he kisses the back of your neck under where he's gripping your hair. He lets you go and moves away, and you shake yourself out of your stupor enough to move, to find him on the bed behind you, his legs hanging over the side. His face is flushed, and you bet if you looked closer you could see his dick leaking through his khakis.

You spread out across his lap instead, your dick trapped against his thigh, and you twist your fingers in the comforter. You think you can feel his dick against your side. He smooths his palm up your still-clothed leg, tugs your boxers back down where they've ridden up during the move. He slips his fingers between your asscheeks and rubs, gently, against your hole.

You hiss out a _fuck_ and your hips snap forward against his thigh, shit, almost too much pressure, and you feel him shift, hear him spit, feel wet drip down your crack.

"This good?" he whispers, and you breathe in, shuddering, and tip your head to the side. You can see the blurred outline of him, his soft, handsome face.

"Yeah," you manage, and a finger slides into you. It's nothing compared to the slow burn from the hits, it's almost exploratory, and you close your eyes and jerk back, try to take him deeper — and his finger's gone, and his palm comes down on you in fast, sharp bursts of brightness and you turn your face to fucking bite down on the comforter. " _Please_ , God."

Your voice is muffled but he hears you, he pinches your ass and makes you spasm against him. "Please what, baby?"

You think, _you know what_ , but you also don't have an answer. Your mind feels full, sluggish, like you just woke up from a dream and you're trying to determine what's real. You feel… small, in a good way. Like Brian will treat you how you should be treated. Loving. Just a little mean. Enough to feel it.

"Fuck," you say, and you mean a little bit _fuck_ and a little bit _fuck me_ , and his hand is moving in slow circles at the small of your back. Stops for a moment. He's not got a lot of nail length, but there's enough there that when he drags them across your aching skin you yelp into the mattress, jerking against him. "Please."

"Please what," he asks you, and he smacks you again, his touch lighter than it was before which is — worse, which feels worse, a tease, a fucking tease. 

You press your forehead against the mattress and gasp out, "P-please, daddy," and you hear him moan and curse, and he hits you again, harder, the force of it pushing your dick against his thigh, and you didn't mean to say it, you didn't fucking mean to say it, but you can't feel anything right now except the burn of Brian's touch and the pressure against your dick, and then he's got a finger back inside you and he finds your prostate and you come in your boxers calling him fucking _daddy_ again, shaking against him.

He collects you up in the blankets after, lets you grab at him until he crawls up the bed to straddle your shoulders, until you can struggle with his zipper and mouth sloppily at his dick and swallow his come.

He lays out next to you, his hand in your hair, and there's the slight creep of shame at the base of your skull, because once is a mistake but twice… but you feel warm and floaty and stupid, and he's gently scraping his nails against your scalp. "You're so pretty," he whispers, kissing your beard. He only gets away with it in times like this, when you're wrung out and too soft to glare at him.

"Thank you for letting me," he says, and you know he means: letting me touch you; letting me hurt you; letting me take care of you.

You hum in response, and drift to sleep to the slow drag of his nails.

==

Three times is a pattern.

You're not — thinking about it, per se, because you don't think about sex at work as a rule, but it's hard not to think about it when Simone calls Ganondorf _daddy_ and everyone's laughing and you're fighting back a blush and Brian's staring at you.

Brian texts you that night:

> I think it's the moustache

And yes, okay, you're thinking about it, you've been thinking about it, about how you're into calling your boyfriend… that, obsessing over what Goddamn weird part of your psyche is into this, so you know instantly what he's talking about.

> Oh fuck you

He doesn't reply and you — you know he knows you, that he gets you're an asshole sometimes but you're not a jerk. But the delay still digs into you. You text:

> I mean why would it be the mustache

> Listen I don't think you need a reason to be into this  
> It's a p common kink  
> If the internet tells me anything

> The intrnet is gross

> Yeah but you're not

Which mixes with the shame and — yeah, the little bit of disgust that's been lurking inside of you. Brian's unwavering belief that you're a good person.

> I'm also not a specail  
> Kinky snowflakr

> Also yeah uh  
> Daddy link can be kind of iffy when it's in your face but if it's just what we do in the bedroom who cares

You. You aren't sure you like the direction this conversation is going.

> Daddy Link doesn't deserve this

> Patrick

> Can we not have this conversation over text

Your phone rings as soon as that text goes through. You shut your door before you answer it, and Brian sounds genuinely concerned when you pick up.

"Listen, I think you're — taking this a lot harder than you need to?"

"It's _supposed_ to be a goof," you counter, and he hums. "It's supposed to fucking — it's a goof! Ha ha, Daddy Pat Gill, then everyone laughs."

He does laugh, but he sounds — exasperated? Like somehow he's already had this talk with you and you're not listening. "Is it because you want me to call you 'daddy'?"

"Oh Goddamnit," you snap, and sit on the edge of your bed. Because that's weird but not in the same way, not in the way that you feel in the pit of your stomach, deep behind your ribcage. Not in the way that both turns you on and makes you want to turn yourself inside out. It just feels unnatural. Like too-tight shoes. "No, sorry, no, that's not. It's fine? If you want to? But I'm not gonna seek it out."

He hums again, and you hear movement. God, his door better have already been closed. "Can I like it? Being called daddy?"

You push your hair out of your face, unsettling your glasses. Does that bother you? Brian with someone, his mouth against their neck while they told him what he wanted to hear. Shit, why would it? It's just — sex. Words said during sex. "Yes. Yeah, whatever, you can like it, man." And it's only after you've said it you realize his trap. "Oh motherfucker."

He snorts. "Figured me out, huh."

"It's different, okay."

"Okay," he says, but it's a questioning okay. Like he's waiting for you to continue. Because he's a bastard.

You slump back against your bed and barely hold your phone to your ear. You can hear him, quietly breathing, waiting you out. Waiting for you to… "I have no idea how to explain this."

"Do you have to?"

"You just asked me —"

"No, I mean, sorry, I meant big picture. Big picture, what's the big deal if you get off on it, or, or why you do, even if I think there's a valid argument to make about the moustache."

You like the moustache. It took some adjusting, but you're starting to get what your mom saw in Peter Selleck. It's also been an intriguing addition to the whole rimming thing. "It's not the moustache."

"It doesn't need to be! I'm just saying — you can like things! You can like weird things —"

"You admit it's weird."

"Pat Gill, I swear to God, I'm making a point — you can like sex stuff and if it doesn't hurt anybody who the fuck cares? The, listen, the first time it happened it took me by surprise — I was not expecting you to, uh, _that_."

You don't think he's trying to be condescending. You can't even tell if he's even being condescending, or if you just feel vulnerable, exposed, too open without a way of putting up shielding.

"And you freaked out and like, fine, but you did it again and I, well, I was definitely into it that time and I think it's stupid to beat yourself up like this for something harmless."

"Have you ever met a Catholic," you respond, and he bursts into laughter.

"Stop deflecting — just, would you think about it? Think about not hating it? It's okay if you like saying it. I think it's okay."

Fuck, you hate this entire conversation, but the worst part about it is reasonable he sounds. How much of what he says makes sense, if you remove the context.

"Yeah, I'll think about it."

He's quiet for a moment, like he's trying to gauge if you're telling the truth. Or like he's giving you space if you want to make any more confessions.

Fuck, this one's enough.

"I did like it, the last time," he says, and his voice is breathy. You react to it like Pavlov's dog, the sound melting through you, ignoring your discomfort. It makes you want to squirm.

"Hopefully it's the last time," you gripe, and he huffs a laugh, his voice growing distant. Like he's put himself on speaker.

"I hope it isn't. Listen — I had a friend in college who was truly, really horny for feet. Which is common! That's as normal kinky as you can get, right?"

"I'm not into feet."

"Me neither! Convenient. But he was nonchalant about it, he wasn't always up in other people's faces about it."

"Their feet about it."

"Touché. But he wasn't ashamed. I thought that was kind of respectable — knowing what you were into and accepting it. Healthy. Like how I like being tied up."

It's such a swerve, the reminder of what Brian looks like with his arms lashed together above his head, that you have to take a second. He makes these noises, especially if he's got a blindfold, like he's desperate, even when he's barely been touched.

"That wasn't an immediate realization. There was this girl I knew back in Baltimore who invited me to a club thing? It was not what I was expecting, I saw, ha, actual bondage gear for the first time in my life which was a lot."

"I've been to one of those places," you volunteer, and you can just _hear_ the way his eyebrows raise. You went with your ex and a friend once, because the friend was into that scene and you were both up for a different kind of night out. You clear your throat, and strain to hear him, the cadence of his breathing. "Yeah, it was — kind of cool. Unusual. Both more and less than what I was expecting, because no one was pushy about it, but they were all very…"

"Comfortable," Brian says, and you know what he's doing, a continuation of his mind game, but there's a hitch in his breath and you're too involved in monitoring that to care. "I thought that was fucking incredible. But it was also intimidating as hell, like there was no way to start with basic stuff — I had to dive right into nipple clamps and CBT."

"Those are on drastically different levels, Brian."

"Look at Mr. Knowledgeable about Bondage. But I was young and starry-eyed and guess what, nipple clamps terrify me, and I was like, well, I'm never gonna pull any of that off, so I guess that's it for me. Vanilla sex forever. Thought I might like restraints, but no thanks."

"I've tried nipple clamps."

Brian's silent. You shocked him into silence, which feels — really fucking good, actually. Like for the first time in this conversation you have the upper hand. Like maybe you can divert him from trying to make you feel good about your weird shit.

"They pinch, but it's mostly this dull feeling at first. Taking them off is when it gets wild. Kind of uh, like spanking actually. It's the rush of blood that gets you."

"You fucker," Brian breathes out, and you laugh.

"Are you getting off on this?"

"You — obviously, oh my God, do you still have them?"

"Nah," you say, and he groans, "but they're like $15, it's not a huge expenditure."

"Fuck," he bites out, and you know he's jerking off. He's breathing slowly, thoughtfully, which is what he does when he's first getting into it, like he read something about tantric handjobs once. "Yes, okay, if you're up for that, I'm uh, up for that."

You put your phone on speaker and drop it onto the bed, before reaching down and undoing your jeans. "Sure," you say easily, because you liked them, and it sure as hell sounds like Brian would like them. (You know exactly what he's doing and he's an asshole.)

"Will they have a chain?" he asks, and before you can respond says, "Because I want to put you where I want you. They'd help."

Shit.

"Sure," you say, and slip your hand under the band of your boxers, getting a grip on your dick. "You can tug me around and everything."

His laugh is interrupted with a gasp, and you listen to him shudder through several breaths. "Good. Good, schedule that in, let's make that happen, baby." You're both quiet for a moment, listening, and then he says, "Can you do something else for me, Patrick?"

You tense, your hand stilling, but your dick jumps at just the _thought_ of it, of Brian asking you to… Maybe he won't. All signs are pointing to it but maybe he won't.

"Sure," you say, and you can hear his whine, and you imagine him working his fingers around the head of his dick, sliding one down the slit, smearing precome. Or he could've turned over, pulled his pants down to his ankles — maybe he stopped touching his dick entirely. Maybe he's fingering himself while talking to you about bossing you around. "What."

He makes a _shushing_ sound, like he's calming a skittish horse, and you brush one of your nails against the side of your dick, a spark of pain, before wrapping your palm around yourself again. There's a pit of something roiling in your stomach and it's — it feels good, is the thing.

"You'd get it, yeah? If I wanted you to call me daddy."

You fucking knew it, and you're pissed that your hips rock up into your grip. That there's warmth radiating out through you. "Yeah, I said, you bastard." Because you would get it, it's just — a thing. Like how people like dirty talk. Or roleplaying.

He laughs, and you wish you could see his face. You bet he looks smug as hell. You bet he looks flushed, and eager, and like he knows he's got you trapped under his thumb. "I do like it, I'm not just pulling your leg. I'm thinking about you, ha, fucking me, and it's like Mother, May I except I'm Daddy, and you have to do what I say."

"Are you fingering yourself?" you ask instead of letting yourself consider the scenario he's concocting, of him completely in control, riding your dick. Of you, asking him for permission. Of you calling him... Fuck, he likes it when you beg.

"Yeah," he says, and he grunts, and his voice is louder, like he's shoved up against the phone. "Or I'll fuck you. Yeah, actually, I'm gonna, ha, gonna fuck you, and you'll have to ask me, Daddy, may I touch my dick?"

"Daddy, may I touch my dick?" you parrot, and he swears and you close your eyes, because hey, that mockery backfired, didn't it.

"You're already touching it," he says, "but if I told you to stop, would you?"

He knows the answer to that. He — knows, and you wish you could pinpoint the moment he gained so much power over you. The moment when you trusted him with it.

"Would you?"

You bite down on your lip and mutter _yes_ , and you hear movement and then the — shit, the sound of slick skin sliding against itself, like he's positioned the phone next to his dick. Which he definitely did.

You always fucking forget he maintained a multi-year long-distance relationship. You forget he's fucking dedicated to phone sex.

"Yes," you tell him, and listen to him slow down, barely hear his gasp.

"Yes, what," he says, muffled, and you roll into your side and fist your dick, pressing your face into the mattress. Shit. _Shit_ , he's a motherfucker, and you're so fucking turned on by this bullshit.

"Yes, daddy," you snarl, and you hear him whine and you hear him speed up and he must've used a handful of lube because he sounds _wet_ and then he's quiet while you angrily rock into your own hand and think about him opening you up, about him only adding a second finger to your ass if you asked for it, _daddy, may I_ _please_ , about begging him to use his mouth, _daddy, may I please have,_ and you come with a grunt.

"Was that okay?" he asks carefully after several moments of steady breathing, and you wipe your hand against your jeans. You need to wash them anyway. You need to… fuck, that was really good, is what it was. The pit in your gut is gone but you still feel the heat lingering throughout your whole Goddamn body, like your blood's three degrees too warm. You don't feel — freer or any bullshit like that, but there's a difference. There's a difference between saying the word because it just fucking comes out of you and saying it because he wants it.

(It's… permission.)

"Yeah, sweetheart," you say, your voice warm, and he hums and then yelps.

"Fuck, I got, oh my God, don't laugh, my phone is _covered_ in jizz."

==

You have normal sex for the next couple weeks. Whatever normal sex is, anyway — sex where he doesn't look you in the eye and ask you to be any more vulnerable than a blowjob usually requires. But you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. The… uncomfortably sexy shoe.

Then, one totally normal Friday night, he hands you your ass in Mario Kart and then inches closer to you on the couch, sliding his arm around your shoulders.

"Smooth," you tell him, and he hums and leans in, kissing your jaw.

"Gosh, I know," he says, and you put your controller down just before he climbs into your lap, hands around your neck and fingers deftly tipping your head back so he can kiss down your throat. "Can I fuck you?" he mouths at your Adam's apple, and there it is, the other shoe, and you lean back from him and catch his eye and hold it.

"Yeah?" you ask, and your voice is — way scratchier than it should be, like you've already been moaning. Like you're already in his bed.

God, you should've known what was coming when he mentioned Laura and Jonah were both out for the rest of the evening.

"Yeah." He kisses you, mouth closed, a firm, chaste press of lips, and when he tries to talk again you slip your tongue between his teeth and fuck his mouth, your fists in his hair, like you've gotta have one last moment before you're putty in his hands.

"Okay," you breathe into him, and he stumbles back off the couch, pulling you with him by the collar of your shirt.

" _Okay,_ " he says, and you let him tug you along to his room.

He kisses you again just inside his door, closed to keep Zuko out, and he looks at you with plain affection, the kind not even a dumbass like you could ignore. "If you wanna stop at any point, just tell me."

Which you appreciate, even if you know you're not going to. You're… in this. You're fucking committed. You can feel the creeping shame starting behind your sternum but Brian's into it, he wants it, wants you to do it, and you think that's enough. He doesn't think it's shameful. He thinks it's hot.

(You think it's hot.)

You kiss his cheek, just under his eye. "How do you want me?"

"That answer contains multitudes," he mutters, and he starts picking at the buttons of your shirt. "On my bed? In whatever makes you comfy."

You laugh, kissing the side of his face, and maneuver around him, finishing your shirt buttons and leaving it hanging open, exposing your undershirt. You drop to the floor to start on your boots and you hesitate, your fingers stumbling on the laces.

You breathe.

"May I take my boots off?"

Brian breathes out, the sound shaky.

"Yes, you may, but you didn't say 'daddy'," he replies, and you close your eyes and bite down on your bottom lip, and it takes you a few seconds before you're able to control your fingers again, before you can actually finish untying your boots, before you can stand and pull them off.

You stare at him once you're finished, catch the slow flush starting on his chest, barely visible over his collar, at his just-parted lips, a little shiny like he's been licking them. You close your eyes when you ask, "Daddy, can I take my shirt off."

His _yes_ is immediate, the word low and sibilant, and you wish you could say it was just that, his response, that was making your dick hard. You strip off your shirt and twist it in your hands before chucking it on the floor. You take your undershirt off too, and Brian steps closer to you and pops open the fly to your jeans, then presses his palm against your bare stomach. He kisses you and you curl your hands around his shoulders, opening your mouth to let him in, and he walks you back, firm pressure on your stomach, until your calves hit the mattress.

"How do you want me?" you ask, and you manage to do an eyebrow waggle, and he laughs as he kisses your chin.

"Back? On your back? I'm gonna — yeah." He drags his hand up your chest and pinches one of your nipples, and then he steps back and pulls his own shirt off. Fuck, his skin is red. You want to bite his collarbone, suck a mark into the soft, meaty part of his chest where it meets his shoulder. You — would have to ask for that, you think.

You shuck off your jeans instead, finishing what he started, and lay out on his mattress. Your dick's tenting your boxers, and you contemplate asking about _that_ but Brian's clambering onto the bed and pushing your knees apart, sitting between them. He sets lube and condoms on the other side of your leg and leans forward to kiss the center of your chest, his hair tickling your chin, and then his hand is in your underwear, his fingers circling around the base of your dick. He presses down on your hip with his other hand moments before you try and buck up into his meager grip, because he's a mind-reading asshole who knows how you react to handjobs, and he looks up at you through hooded eyes.

"You're not gonna come for a while yet, Pat," he tells you, and you laugh breathlessly, shoving your hands under your ass so you don't try and grab him.

"You have a plan?"

He hums and tugs your underwear down, leaning to the side so you can kick them fully off, then goes back to working his palm around your dick, slow and dry. "You're gonna ask me," he says, and you swallow, your hips rocking up even with him trying to keep them on the bed. "That's the plan. I'm gonna jerk you off, and I'm gonna eat you out, and then you're," he licks his lips and swallows, closing his eyes briefly, "you're gonna suck me off until I tell you to stop. And then you're going to ask me to fuck you."

You tip your head back on the mattress and laugh through the haze of horniness you're already succumbing to. "You have an actual plan, oh my God."

He laughs too, and smacks your thigh. "Father knows best," he tells you, and you groan.

"No — _no,_ I do not, I'm not here for," you stutter through your laughter, and he squeezes your dick and pushes his thumb down against the head, which is _not_ going to distract you. "Daddy, may I fucking shove you off the bed?"

"Rude!" He shuffles down the bed a bit, bending over to nip at your thigh. "No! Gosh, you're ungrateful. Put your knee over my shoulder."

You do, and you see him reach for something, then hear the pop of the lube bottle. It's fucking _cold_ when he spreads the lube back from your sack, over your hole, and you kick his back with your heel. "Hey, asshole."

"Mmhmm," he says, tapping a finger against your dick. "And what's _this_ called, baby?"

" _Dickhead_."

He barks a laugh and kisses the inside of your thigh, and when his hand twists up your dick he slips a fingertip inside you and you make yourself breathe. In. Out. Fuck, it's always a strange feeling, but he's got long fingers and he usually goes straight for your prostate because he's a menace — "Shit."

"Feel good?" He kisses your thigh again, then drops his head. You'd never had the opportunity to find out your Goddamn taint was ticklish until Brian grew his moustache, and you shudder when he presses his mouth up against you, when you feel the wet warmth of his tongue lick around his finger. "I think you feel good," he tells you, voice muffled, and you throw your arm across your face.

His hand stills on your dick, a tight circle around the base, and one of these days he's gonna realize he can just buy a cockring and then you'll never again know peace. He rubs his fucking finger inside of you and licks and you dig your heel into his back, bend your other knee up, like that'll prompt him to actually do something more. It's — steady, everything he's doing is just a Goddamn steady climb towards you losing your mind, and you grab your thigh so you don't try and touch your dick, try and get there faster.

"Come on," you moan, and he hums, the vibrations hitting you through his tongue, his fucking ticklish moustache, and you press your heel into the mattress — leverage. Rock up into his firm grip on your dick, down onto his tongue, his finger, and he pulls away enough to give you the stink-eye, just visible past your erection.

"Use your words, Patrick," he chastises, and you watch his face, his put-upon exasperation, as he pushes back into you with a single, taunting finger. "What do you say?"

You bite the end of your tongue until it hurts and you push your hair off your forehead, and you weigh your options — that hot rush of mortification and desire against the need settling into your bones. "Two or three, three fucking fingers," you say, and before he can correct you, you do it yourself, "I want, God, daddy, give me more. May I have some more."

He rewards you, filling you with his fingers and whispering _good boy_ against your ass before he licks around the stretch of your hole, and you move your arm back across your face, bite into your forearm and bear down on him, fuck, and somehow you'd forgotten about your dick but he lets go of it. The rush of blood, the sensation of it sparks through you, and you shout against your arm, fuck. _Fuck_.

"Touch me," you whine, it sounds like a whine, "d-daddy, fucking," you stutter, and he makes a noise against your ass and you hear him move, feel his fingers pull out of you — _fuck_ , that's not, you didn't mean — and his hand is on your arm, moving it gently from your face.

"Shh, baby, you're good, c'mon, remember?" His voice is rough, low, and you turn your face towards him. He's backlit, a shadow with glowing edges kneeling on the bed next to you, he's so Goddamn gorgeous, a force, and he reaches for you with a golden hand and caresses the side of your mouth with his thumb, runs the pad over your lips, tells you, "Open up for me, Patrick, fuck, look at you."

Your mouth falls open and he grunts like it was punched out of him, and he pushes up on his knees. He touches your temple, filtering his fingers through your hair, careful, and you feel simultaneously tightly coiled and loose, you feel precious somehow, _cared for_ , and he leans into you and drags the tip of his dick against your bottom lip. You lick at the smear of precome left, then at his head, and he shudders out a breath and feeds you his dick in inches. Circles his other hand in your hair, whispering your name.

You're not at an angle that you can set the pace and you don't think he's gonna let you move, you don't know if you could move without chucking him off the bed, God, but you can relax your mouth, you can press your tongue against his dick, you can curl one of your hands around his thigh.

"Good, baby," he tells you, "you're doing, you're doing so well for daddy," and you moan around him, you close your lips around his dick and suck, digging your fingernails into his thigh so you don't try to touch yourself. You're — you, you want.

Your lips meet the fist he has wrapped around the base of his dick and he breathes out in a rush, and then his hand is gone and you're breathing through your nose, your mouth sloppy around as much of him as he can fit, and you want, fuck, you want him to. 

He tightens his hand in your hair, briefly, a pulse of _sharp_ , and he pulls his dick out of your mouth, and he's saying something, his words slurring, "Look so good, Pat, thank you, you're so good for me," and you blink up at him and... _want_.

"Fuck me, daddy," you tell him, and you remember the idea of shame but don't remember what it feels like, how it felt bleeding through you. You remember — but you _don't_ , all you know is the spike of arousal, the warmth, the depth of Brian's eyes when you say it, and he kisses your forehead and murmurs _okay, baby_ , and moves down the bed.

He calls you _good_ and slides cold fingers — lube, he added more lube — inside of you, and then they're gone, and he's bending your leg back, and the blunt of his dick is against your hole, and you growl _fuck me_ and he does. He fucks into you and your hands skitter across his skin until they find purchase on his shoulders, and you feel like you're bigger than your body, like the edges of you don't exist anymore, and your leg twinges when he pushes forward, dropping his face to your neck, but you can barely feel it. You feel him, inside of you and pressing you into the bed, and you feel his mouth breathing hot against your skin, and you feel the incendiary ache lighting up every inch of you when he calls you _perfect_ and _good_ and _love_.

Your mouth is open and you're begging, you think, you're saying nonsense, all of it running together, _please_ and _daddy_ and _need_ , and he bites into your neck at the same time that there's suddenly pressure on your dick, his hand, _oh_ , and the sound you make is desperate.

Loud.

Has him kissing your stinging skin and calling you _darling_ , telling you, asking you, oh God, to _come for me_ , and your hand finds his hair and you gasp against him, into his ear, and he fucks into you, twisting his hand on your dick, and every bit of you shatters apart.

He curses and holds you, and you — cling to him, shuddering, like a cord pulled too taut, and he grunts when he goes still, his hips against your ass, his teeth against your skin.

You’re breathing through your mouth. Your eyes are closed and when he moves in your grip, your fingers tighten. In his hair, in the meat of his shoulder.

His voice is low, like warm honey in your ear. “You’re so good,” he tells you, and you feel your full weight, every pound of flesh and bone keeping you on this bed. “God, I’m — fuck, Patrick,” he says, and you feel him touch your face, brush a finger over your cheek.

You’re crying, or you cried, you can feel the wet heat evaporating off your skin, and you blink your eyes open and look up at the shitty ceiling of Brian’s apartment, the crack running from the light fixture to the wall, and then to him, to his hooded eyes and his parted lips and the rat’s nest of his hair. “I love you,” you say, because there’s nothing else you could say in this moment, when you’re cracked open, your heart exposed. When you have every reason in the world to feel shitty and you feel… this. You feel cherished, instead.

He smiles, the expression slow-moving across his face, a twitch of his mouth before his eyes crinkle at the edges. “I have the best fucking ideas,” he says, and you close your eyes again and laugh.

==

The next week at work in the midst of the chaos surrounding the release of the _Cats_ trailer, Simone confidently describes Rum Tum Tugger over Slack as an obvious _daddy_ contender.

You don’t even blush.

You catch Brian’s eye, and slowly lift an eyebrow.

He chokes on his tea, laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! i'd love to hear from you in a comment. ♥


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